A Court of Innocents

Epilogue

Lucien Vanserra knew three things with great certainty.

First, that the Spring Court's splendid city of Windsor was loud and bright and plentiful, and its music drifted across the lands as a steady wind drifted across the seas—ever-present and calming.

Second, that Rosehall manor was always bursting with the voices and colorful elegance of Spring Court officials.

Third, that this court of gentle spring and blooming flowers was, for a very long time, the safest place in the world to him, even at the peak of Amarantha's reign.

But now, as he stood at the threshold of the manor, overlooking the sprawling, glistening green hills that stretched boundlessly towards the sun, Lucien was certain of three very different things. Since this morning, Windsor had fallen into a deathly silence. That light, joyful wind was now hollow. Shadows veiled the checkered floor of Rosehall's front room in darkness. Not a soul to be found. Not a whisper to be heard. It felt to him as though a defeat had settled on the air, chilling the wind and silencing the music. He knew what had transpired in the distant north of Day. He knew that not even the refuge of Spring could protect him from the repercussions.

Lucien turned from the open doors, turning his back to the cloudless morning, and started for the library.

Most of his memories were contained to this manor. In the years that he had been chained to that mask, Tamlin's curse plaguing this land, his smiles and laughs had only existed here. Tamlin—his leader, his friend, his brother—had treated Amarantha with naivete and arrogance. He saw her claws and mistook them for an animal he could easily hunt down, as they had together so many times in the surrounding woods. Tamlin had judged that wraith too quickly, too easily, and all of Prythian had nearly died for it.

Lucien had promised himself—and the court he adored—that no such thing would ever happen again. He'd held onto that claim the moment he escaped Under the Mountain. While Feyre had been losing herself, and Tamlin had been driven to madness, Lucien had secretly, carefully taken matters into his own hands.

The oak doors of the library spilled into the grand room. Books of all lengths and colors adorned the walls—his favorite kind of decoration. The opposite wall of smooth stone encased an ancient hearth, already lit.

Lucien moved over to the work desk where he'd remained well into the early hours of morning. He wasn't fond of writing. Devouring the already written word was his preference, a pastime he could happily grow old partaking in, but as a courtesan, he understood the obligation. He had a duty—a word that most of the people he surrounded himself didn't seem to grasp. Writing was a necessary evil, especially when he did it so fluidly.

He glanced down at the letter—all six pages of it. When troubles plagued him, he often found release in writing to Elain. Every hardship he couldn't lament, every dark secret he couldn't voice. Even the small victories that must be kept private but still longed to be shared with his mate. He wrote it all down, and then he burned the pages.

Now, he examined his writing. My darling Elain, the letter had begun. How I miss you. How I long for the days we spent on The Continent, free to be together as we wished, free to plot and plan and perform for each other. How I miss those stolen touches.

The elegant curve of practiced penmanship had grown sloppy as the hours grew later and his thoughts had blurred together. He should have retired hours earlier, but sleep had deserted him. How could he have slept soundly, knowing that his great scheme was unfolding precisely as intended? Knowing what he had doomed his cousin to? Or the darkness his mother was now lost in?

They will call her by her true name before the night is through, he had written. Mala Lightbringer, the promised child. Beron will not understand the prophecy, or how his fate is tied to it. He will see her power and think only of seizing it for himself. Yara will—

Lucien crumpled the pages, tossing them one by one into the fire. His cousin's face flashed through his mind as the flames licked up the papyrus, decimating it to ash. He saw her smile, heard their inside jokes, and remembered the way she had protected him. Always defending him, no matter what.

He had never been able to repay that.

This, he prayed, would be a good way to start.

She wouldn't forgive him. He knew that, understood it, and hadn't let that knowledge stop him from doing what must be done. What no one—not Tamlin or Eris or Rhysand—had the strength to do. The prophecy they all ran from.

Yara would suffer, he knew, but then she would rise from the ashes. A phoenix reborn, blessed with the magic to save this world.

The library doors creaked open. Footsteps sounded, and then heavy breathing reached Lucien's ears. He knew who stood behind him without turning.

"She's gone, then?" Lucien asked, already knowing the answer.

The question was met with silence. He turned to find Tamlin bloody and pale, eyes dark with exhaustion. Grief rippled through his body. Black pants hung in tatters across his hips. Then he crumpled, falling to his knees just as the first tear escaped.

Yes, Lucien decided for himself. Yara was back in Autumn. Nothing else could defeat Tamlin like this.

"Tell me," The High Lord breathed, voice cracking, "tell me that it was worth it. That we did the right thing."

Admittedly, Lucien had doubted Tamlin. The High Lord had grown soft in the previous decade, and his greatest weakness had always been Yara Vanserra. From that first Calanmai, it had been her, and no one else.

As his High Lord crumbled before him, Lucien felt blissful relief. Tamlin had done the impossible.

The hardest part of Lucien's plan hadn't been the scheming, or the unfolding. He had brought Yara to Spring easily enough and sent Tamlin to the Day Court just as swiftly. The letter to his cruel brother had been quick to write, the Ancient Text simple for Eris to find where Lucien had planted it. He'd played these people like puppets on strings. The hardest part had been Tamlin and Yara. Trusting that the High Lord would do what was necessary, hoping—praying—that he would put aside his emotions and let Beron take her away again, now that had proven a true challenge.

Lucien moved to Tamlin's side, settling a hand on his shoulder. The High Lord's silent cries heaved through his body, trembling beneath Lucien's hand.

"It was worth it," he told his friend, his brother, his leader. "We will get her back, Tam. But we need to let Eris do his part first."

Those grieving shakes turned violent, despair morphing into heated anger. Tamlin's monstrous side—pushing towards the surface.

Lucien squeezed his shoulder tighter. A tether to the real world, a rope for the civil, fae side of Tamlin to cling to. Lucien reminded him, "They need time. Eris asked for a month. Thirty days to keep Yara in Autumn, and then we can send her back, and then... all will be righted. Four weeks, Tam. Just four weeks, and then you can rip that court apart to get her back, and I will gladly follow you."

A month of normalcy. A month of Prythian rotting away beneath the weight of disease, and then the slate would be wiped clean, and this world would start anew. Rebuilt from the ground up. A new world—a better world. Just as they'd always dreamed.

Steadying his breaths, Tamlin rose to his feet. "I'm going to kill them all."

Lucien knew better than to ask who he referred to. He wouldn't put it past Tamlin to kill every person in this world until all that remained was him and Yara. A clean slate, indeed.

With a determination that would set the world trembling, Tamlin Vernal, High Lord of the Spring Court, began the endless work to get his mate back.